


A Lifetime Together

by LondonGypsy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Epic Friendship, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Retirement, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Slow Build, Through the Years, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, all the small things - Freeform, and they both know it, blink and you miss it - Freeform, just a teeny tiny smidge of angst, they both want it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-16 07:18:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7257895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonGypsy/pseuds/LondonGypsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock falling in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lifetime Together

**Author's Note:**

> Just simple, unadulterated fluff! I needed some sweet, loving JohnLock after all the angst and panic in the Setlock tags. So I went and indulged in a fic where they slowly fall in love, take their time and it just happens. No big drama, just the two of them, knowing exactly what they want: each other.
> 
> A big thank you to [Meretricious](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Meretricious/pseuds/Meretricious) for the superfast beta'ing, the suggestions and the general loveliness!  
> Any remaining mistakes are mine.

_Three days_

 

John shot upright, panting heavily. For a terrible long moment he had no idea where he was. Panic clawed inside his chest, and he laid a hand on his heart, willing it to calm down.

Soft violin music drifted through the closed door into his bedroom, and John fell back onto his drenched pillows, realization slowly seeping in his mind.

He wasn't in the desert anymore, he was in London. Nobody was chasing him, there wasn't a gun trained at his back, no bombs aimed at him.

He exhaled, pressing his trembling hands into the mattress.

The music changed, shifted into something less soothing, but more uplifting with a cheeky little thrill here and there. It made John smile despite his pounding heart.

Pushing the covers off he swung his legs out of bed, the cool air giving him a chill. His t-shirt stuck to his torso and, with a silent curse, he took it off, throwing it into a corner of the room.

His eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and he got up to change. He opened the small wardrobe, squinting into it. It was depressingly empty - the army had taught him to pack only what he could carry.

 _I need to shop_ , he thought, as he rummaged through his few belongings. Cursing again, he slammed the door shut as he remembered that Mrs Hudson had taken away all his clothes to wash them. She had only left what he had been wearing, so now he was without a shirt to change.

Standing in the middle of the room he stared at the bed, contemplating to sleep without. He's done it before, had always slept in the nude but the war had ensured that he stopped that.

'You can't fight when you first have to fumble for your clothes, Watson.' The voice of his superior was still ringing in his ears.

John rubbed a hand over his face before he stepped over to the bed, turning over the pillow and the duvet, pondering.

Perhaps he could go and ask Mrs Hudson to return at least one of his shirts but as he cast a glance at the clock on the bedside table, he ruled that out. She seemed like a long suffering saint but even she might have her boundaries at being woken at three in the morning.

The constant music from downstairs changed again, this time into something melancholic and so achingly sad, that John was down the stairs before he even noticed. He stopped on the landing; the door to the sitting room was open and he could see his flatmate standing by the window. The room was dark save for fuzzy beam of light, probably from the kitchen, which illuminated the man's bare feet. His hips were swaying gently with the music, making the light dressing gown swish against his legs. Every motion was fluid, almost languid; there was nothing left of the nervous energy John had thought was the man's natural state.

It was the absolutely opposite of how John had felt only moments ago. This was a picture of utter peace and serenity, not the wild, bloody madness of his dreams. He leaned against the door frame, letting the music wash over him and silence his jumbled thoughts.

Only as the music stopped he realized that his eyes had fallen shut.

"Nightmare." Sherlock's voice was merely a whisper but it startled John. It wasn't a question yet John felt compelled to answer it.

"Yes," he said, clearing his throat. His hands instantly went to straighten his shirt before he remembered that he wasn't wearing one.

Sherlock's omniscient eyes scanned over him, and John squared his shoulders.

"You can have one of mine if you like."

Before John could even react, Sherlock had put down the violin and walked through the kitchen. John heard him open the door to his room and only moments later he returned, holding out a t-shirt to John who looked at it a bit dumbfounded.

Sherlock huffed a sigh, took John's hand and closed his fingers around the fabric.

"You clearly can't sleep without. So, take it," he said, as if it was the most obvious fact in the world. Without waiting for a reply he wandered back to the window and took up the violin again.

"Good night, John," he said, drawing the bow across the strings and started playing once more.

John watched him for another long moment before he turned and climbed the stairs to his room.

He didn't close the door.

Unfolding the shirt, he slipped it over his head. The faint scent of aftershave filled his nose, and John inhaled it deeply without thinking. In fact, his mind was quiet, lulled by the ever-present music filling the room.

He got back in bed and pulled the covers over himself. The image of Sherlock's silhouette against the darkened window followed him into his sleep.

 

_One week_

 

Sherlock stumbled out of his bedroom, barely awake, squinting into the bright light filling the kitchen. He tilted his head, listening. The flat was quiet which meant that John was out. Glancing out the window over the sink, he realized that it was later than he had expected. Shrugging it off he started searching the cupboards for a clean mug, muttering as he found none.

He then turned to check on his latest experiment, and he frowned. It had been moved to the side -carefully, to not disturb the many cultures in the petri dishes, and next to a folded newspaper was a cup -in a saucer no less-, a plate and a glass with some juice. Next to it sat the sugar bowl, the butter dish, two jars of jam and one of honey.

With growing curiosity Sherlock checked the kettle, which was full, ready to be flicked on, an empty teapot next to it. Two pieces of toast stuck in the toaster, and Sherlock instinctively pushed them down. A small smile lingered over his lips as he peered in the tea pot and found his favourite brand, only available online and rather expensive; he'd run out a few days ago and hadn't been able to re-order it just yet.

Still smiling he waited for the water to boil, filled the pot and set it on the table. He plucked the toast from the toaster, and sat down. For a moment he stared blindly at the little arrangement in front of him, trying to remember the last time he actually had breakfast like this.

"Been a while," he murmured to himself, ignoring the cold knot in his chest. He poured himself a cup of tea, plopped two sugars in it, and started buttering the toast.

Outside the window he could hear birds and, more pronounced, London's ever present traffic. Somewhere next door a dog barked, and a car door slammed. Occasionally he heard voices from the downstairs cafe.

He ignored the newspaper, his phone was still in his bedroom, and he fully concentrated on what was right in front of him.

It was oddly calming, and for the first time in a while he was just content with slowly sipping his tea and slathering honey on warm buttered toast.

His ever-buzzing mind had slowed down considerably, which was unusual. Normally the only thing that could calm him like this was his violin or the- He forbade himself to finish that particular thought. Only when he took up the bow, when he coaxed the most delicate sounds from some plain strings, only in those few precious moments was his overly active brain able to shut down, and he could just seize the moment.

His phone pinged.

With a sigh and some swiftly suppressed anger at the disruption he stood. But before he went to get it, he quickly cleaned up the table, dumping the dishes into the sink, putting everything back where it belonged.

He cast a quick look around the kitchen, nodded and walked into his bedroom to retrieve his phone.

 

_Six months_

 

John ducked, and grinned as he heard the punch intended for his face crush into the brick wall behind him. Whirling around he threw a punch himself, the grin widening as he felt hot blood splatter as his fist connected with the nose. The suspect wailed and threw himself at John who only stepped aside. A giggle bubbled up as he reached out, twisting the man's arm behind his back, pushing him further into the wall.

"Just stop it," John said coolly, "or I'll break your arm too."

The man whimpered, and John felt the will to fight drain from his opponent's body. He grinned again.

"Sherlock," he called, not once easing the pressure on the arm in his hand, knowing the man couldn't be far.

The distinctive sound of handcuffs closing finally had John stand back, still highly alert but the suspect knew he was done for; he slumped against the wall, casting hateful glances at both John and Sherlock.

"You'll pay for this," he snarled, spitting blood at them.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," John said, turning towards Sherlock, "you okay?"

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, his bright eyes staring past John at the suspect.

"Sherlock?" John insisted, "are you okay?" He stepped closer, trained eyes scanning over Sherlock's lanky frame.

"Just a scratch, nothing to worry about," was the absent reply.

John inhaled sharply, fingertips itching, but he knew Sherlock wouldn't let him check him over in front of a suspect. He was still standing, and John couldn't see any visible wounds. Gritting his teeth he took a hold of their suspect and pushed him out of the alley in direction of the sirens he could hear in the distance.

*

An hour later they stumbled back into their flat, giddy and exhausted. As soon as Sherlock had shed his coat, John was at him.

"Where?" he asked, already off to the bathroom to get his medical kit.

"It's nothing, John, stop fussing," Sherlock said but John was having none of it.

"Off," he ordered as he returned, gesturing at Sherlock's clothes which earned him a sarcastically raised eyebrow.

"Don't you want to buy me dinner first?" he asked dryly.

"I always buy you dinner, clothes off now!" John shot back, ignoring the fluttering in his stomach.

While John put on a pair of medical gloves, Sherlock undressed as if it was the most normal thing. And it was, John thought, watching him wince as he peeled off the bloodsoaked trousers. At least it was for them. They both had been stabbed, shot at and strangled more often then John could count. As a result he had seen more of Sherlock's body than anybody else.

And with time he had come to equally dread, and welcomed, the times when he was allowed to look and touch - even though it was purely for medical reasons.

"Just a scratch, huh?" John asked as he motioned Sherlock to sit. Leaning closer he inspected the knife wound on his thigh. "Clean cut, will need stitches though," he said, dabbing at the blood freshly oozing from the cut.

Sherlock made a noncommittal sound which had John smile grimly. Even though John had seen the tiny scars at Sherlock's inner elbow, the man wasn't too fond of needles. And being sewn together by John was definitely one of the very few things that made even the great Sherlock Holmes flinch.

John worked quickly; by now it was merely routine. And yet, the first stitch still hurt John almost as much as it hurt Sherlock even though he didn't say a word. But John could see his trembling hands, curled in so tightly the knuckles were white. He felt his tensing muscles under his palm, and he didn't think as he stroked over Sherlock's upper thigh soothingly.

The small gasp Sherlock let out echoed through the room a long time.

"Relax," John murmured, pressing his hand into the hard flesh.

"Easier said than done," Sherlock replied but to John's surprise he did. He heard a loud exhale and the tension under his fingertips eased a bit.

John hummed approvingly, and quickly continued his work. After he had bandaged it, he looked up. "Anywhere else?" he asked.

Sherlock shook his head, breathing harshly through his nose. John watched him curiously, a question forming in his mind but he held it back. It was too personal, and John knew how much Sherlock valued his privacy.

Sherlock snorted unamused, lids fluttering shut.

"These needles don't bring me the kind of relief I used to prefer," he said flatly.

John nodded mutely; he had assumed as much but it felt oddly satisfactory to get that particular suspicion confirmed.

"I'm sorry," he offered halfheartedly, and then as another thought hit him, he added: "'used to'?"

Sherlock's eyes softened.

"Yes, 'used to'."

John felt a smile form on his lips, relief flooding his system, and suddenly he realized that he had been more worried about Sherlock than he wanted to admit to himself.

"Good," he muttered.

His hand was still resting on Sherlock's leg, and he squeezed gently. "That's good," he repeated, a little less firm. He was distracted by the smoothness of Sherlock's pale skin, the play of muscles beneath his palm, and for a moment he forgot everything around him.

Only as Sherlock's hand lowered onto his, he looked up.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, his eyes scanning over John's face.

"You're welcome."

For another minute they didn't move, eyes locked before Sherlock exhaled, breaking the moment.

John stood, packing away his kit and returning it to the bathroom.

"Chinese?" he asked when he came back, ignoring the fact that Sherlock was still watching him with that inquisitive expression.

 

_Eleven months_

 

John had fallen asleep on Sherlock's shoulder, and for the first time in his life, Sherlock didn't mind having someone so close to him.

But then again, John wasn't like everybody else.

Carefully, Sherlock grabbed the pillow next to him, and then leaned back, making sure John didn't wake as he maneuvered them around until his head was on the pillow in his lap.

John had insisted on having a quiet night in, just watching some telly. Sherlock still wasn't entirely sure why he had agreed to it.

Instead of pursuing that thought he focused on John. He'd already memorized every inch of his face, committed it to memory, and yet he used every moment to look some more.

John was fascinating. Nothing made sense with him. Whenever Sherlock thought he had figured him out, he did something so utterly unexpected that Sherlock had to adjust his view on him once more.

Sherlock sighed deeply; the slight movement of his stomach jostled John's head, who let out a disgruntled huff but didn't wake up.

It took twelve point five seconds for Sherlock to realise that he was smiling. As he tried to stop it, he found he couldn't. Shrugging he stowed that information away; whenever John was concerned, his normally flawless logic failed him and he had long given up trying to make sense of it.

John was special. Perhaps not to everybody but definitely to Sherlock.

And he was almost sure that he himself was also more than just a flatmate to John. Over the past few months things had shifted between them, had gone from mere strangers who shared a flat to something Sherlock thought of as friends.

It had hit him pretty hard - he had never had any friends, and it had taken him an embarrassingly long time to see it as it was. He hadn't been able to rely on experience; only as Lestrade had casually mentioned their friendship, Sherlock had started to think about it. And after consulting the depth of the internet, and several interrogations of Molly, Mrs Hudson and Mike, he'd come to the conclusion he and John had indeed become friends.

And although nobody had mentioned it to him, he was pretty certain the warm feeling that always accumulated in his stomach when John was around wasn't normal, he had just accepted it. John had done something nobody else had achieved before - he had made Sherlock abandon logic for emotions.

Sherlock sneered; even thinking about that made him uneasy but he couldn't deny the fact that it was true.

John stirred and Sherlock's thoughts screeched to a halt. He looked down and met hazy eyes, blinking sleepily at him.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was raspy from sleep, and suddenly Sherlock wanted to hear him say his name like that for the rest of his life.

"Hmm?" He was captured by John's unusually blue gaze. A confused frown had formed between his brows -he was wondering how he ended in this position- and without thinking Sherlock lifted a hand to smooth it away. His thumb stroked gently over the deep creases, his other fingers sliding in John's greying hair which was strangely soft.

"You fell asleep," Sherlock murmured, wondering if this fell into the category of 'a bit not good'.

John lifted his head, looked at the still playing television and then back at Sherlock.

"Ah, 'kay," he said, letting his head fall back, his eyes closing again.

Sherlock took his hand away now that the dreadful frown was gone again but John made a protesting noise.

"Don't stop," he muttered, "'s nice."

"Okay," Sherlock mumbled, and carded his hand through John's hair once more. He was rewarded with a content hum. Settling back into the sofa, he tried to concentrate back on the film on the TV. He didn't notice the lingering smile still very visible on his face.

 

_One year, five days_

 

Sherlock paced the waiting room, his cold hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat. He faintly noticed as Mycroft walked in but didn't grant him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.

"He's awake," Mycroft said after a long tense minute. He stepped back as Sherlock walked past him. "He'll be fine," he added but Sherlock barely heard him.

He hurried down the corridor, heart beating too fast in his chest. As he laid a hand on the door to John's room, he exhaled. It wouldn't do if John saw how worried he had been.

It took him longer than he cared to admit to calm himself before he was able to enter the room. His hammering heart stopped for a second as he saw John in the bed, too many machines and tubes attached to his body.

Slowly he walked over, pulling a chair close and sitting down.

"Sherlock." John's voice was hoarse, and it shot a twinge of guilt through Sherlock.

"I'm here," he said, leaning forward so John could see him without moving.

The ghost of a smile flickered over John's pale face and, without taking his gaze away, Sherlock searched for his hand. He wanted to squeeze it, wanted to cling to it but all he did was gently holding it in his own.

"Cold hands," John mumbled and Sherlock murmured an apology yet he didn't let go.

They sat in silence, only the dull beeping of the machinery was to be heard.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock eventually said, "I should've-"

"It's not your fault," John interrupted fiercely, his voice breaking at the end, "you didn't know."

"But I always know," Sherlock replied, fingers clenching involuntarily around John's.

"You couldn't have known this," John said, returning the squeeze, "hell, even I didn't and I'm a doctor."

Sherlock didn't have an answer to that so he just sat there, willing his hands to warm up.

"At least," John said after a while, "we don't have to worry about that anymore. Which reminds me, do you still have your appendix?"

Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle, shaking his head.

"No, had it taken out as a child."

"Good," John murmured, lids fluttering, "one thing less we have to concern ourselves with." His eyes fell shut even though he tried to keep them open

"Sleep now, John," Sherlock said, caressing his hand, settling in for a night in an uncomfortable hospital chair.

 

_One year, three months_

 

John watched Sherlock circle the victim, crouching down to sniff at the hair, or lift a hand to peer at the nails closely. They were working together for a while now, yet he was still impressed by the way Sherlock just saw things, found clues where nobody else did, with such an effortless ease that it took John's breath away.

Sometimes John wondered why Sherlock even wanted him at a crime scene; he rarely needed him. He had enough medical knowledge himself to get along just fine. And yet he insisted that John accompanied him, even asked his opinion when it was perfectly obvious that he knew the answer already.

It filled John with a warmth he hadn't felt in a while, and he smiled.

"What's so amusing?"

John blinked, turning his head and came almost nose to nose with Sherlock who was eyeing him closely. Despite the fact that the man was mere inches away from him, John didn't move away. He was used to Sherlock's disregard of personal space by now; in fact, he welcomed it whenever it happened.

"Nothing. Just you being brilliant, that's all," John said softly, keeping his voice low.

His breath hitched as Sherlock's face broke into a wide smile which faded as quickly as it appeared but it left John with a fluttering pulse. Sparkling bright eyes were on him for another second before Sherlock whirled around and launched into a complicated explanation of the crime in front of them. Lestrade and his team had troubles keeping up and Sherlock became impatient as he had to repeat himself. But eventually Lestrade nodded and barked orders at his team.

"Statements, tomorrow morning. John, you-"

John nodded patiently; he always was the one Lestrade turned to when it came to the paperwork as he knew Sherlock had little regards for such dull tasks.

"I will, Greg."

"Off you go then, we'll managed the rest."

Sherlock shot Lestrade a sharp look and opened his mouth but John stopped his oncoming rant by taking his hand and pulling him away.

"Leave them be," he said, "despite what you think, they're perfectly capable of doing things without you."

Sherlock muttered under his breath but followed John towards the street, long fingers absently curling around John's .

"You hungry?" John asked as they reached the curb, head swivelling about in search of a cab.

"John."

Sherlock's voice had taken a strange tone and John turned towards him, worry instantly bubbling up.

"What is it?"

Instead of an answer, Sherlock's gaze dropped to their still joined hands. Somewhere along the short distance between the crime scene and the street, their fingers had entwined, slotted together perfectly, resting against each other like puzzle pieces.

"Oh." The word came out in a rush of breath. Slowly John looked up, searching Sherlock's face. He found surprise and wonderment, and as he tightened his grip, Sherlock exhaled abruptly.

"Alright?" John asked lowly, absolutely not wanting to let go.

Sherlock tilted his head, clearly pondering that question. John held his breath, waiting patiently for his genius to answer.

"Alright," he finally whispered, hesitantly stroking his thumb over John's.

John smiled at him, adjusted his grip and said:

"I feel like Indian today."

A cab slowed down and stopped right next to them, and they slipped inside, not letting go of each other's hands.

 

_One year, seven months_

 

John watched as Sherlock came out of the bathroom, towel haphazardly slung around his hips, pale skin still glistening, wet feet leaving footprints on the floor.

He could've used the adjoined door leading straight into his bedroom; he didn't need to walk through the kitchen where he knew John was having breakfast. And yet he did it every morning.

John smiled into his mug, not taking his eyes off of the half open door of Sherlock's room. And as every morning he let out a soft sigh as the towel was flung on the bed.

Despite the fact that Sherlock thought of himself as somewhat illiterate when it came to human nature and social etiquette, he had become quite good at flirting with John.

And John enjoyed every second. One day he would stroll right into Sherlock's room, would slowly close the door and-

"Yoohoo," Mrs Hudson poked her head through the door, "are you boys decent?"

John chuckled and tore his eyes away from Sherlock's room.

"I am. Not sure about him," he replied. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the door close.

Slowly Mrs Hudson entered the kitchen, carrying the mail and a tray with freshly baked biscuits.

"I think I made too many," she said with a cheeky smile, putting the tray on the table.

"Oh, you shouldn't have," John said, smiling widely at her, "thank you."

She winked at him and gestured in direction of Sherlock's room. "Make sure he eats some as well, he's too thin."

John nodded; he'd been trying to get Sherlock to eat more whenever he got the chance. Mrs Hudson's biscuits usually worked pretty well as Sherlock had had quite the sweet tooth. As soon as John had found out he had casually mentioned it in front of Mrs Hudson. And from that moment on they never had run out of something sweet in their flat.

"Are you talking about me?" Sherlock demanded to know, wandering into the kitchen, now properly dressed, typing away on his phone.

"We wouldn't dare," John grinned, grabbing a biscuit and held it up to Sherlock as he walked past him, "here, try this."

Sherlock stopped, eyes twinkling as he stooped down and opened his mouth. John rolled his eyes good-naturedly and popped the biscuit in his mouth.

"Lazy git," he muttered as he watched Sherlock stroll into the sitting room. Sherlock cast a glance over his shoulder, smirking.

Mrs Hudson let out a delighted giggle and with a "I'll leave you to it then" vanished back downstairs.

 

_One years, eleven months_

 

Snow was blowing against the windows, wind rattling the frames and Sherlock could feel the cold through the windowpane. But inside it was warm, a roaring fire casting a golden glow over the otherwise dark room.

Sherlock finished the piece with a little flourish, lowered the violin and smiled at John's contented sigh.

"Your tea's getting cold," he then said with mild disapproval but Sherlock knew it was only a façade. John enjoyed these moments more than he let on: just the two of them, Sherlock playing the violin, John reading or typing away on his blog.

And over time Sherlock had come to like it as well. He still loved his work, the thrill of a chase, but every now and then he could slow down, relish a quiet night in - as long as John was there with him.

Sherlock put the violin in its case and closed it before he strolled over to his chair, flopping in it. He took up the steaming mug John handed him, their fingers brushing gently.

John leaned back, watching Sherlock who took a careful sip of the tea.

"Honey," he said, a smugness in his tone at Sherlock frowned at the tea, "it's healthier than the immense amounts of sugar you always heap into it."

Sherlock shot him a glare but John wasn't impressed at all. He hadn't been in quite some time. And sometimes Sherlock wondered whether that was a good or a bad thing. He himself was still not immune to the few times John fell back into his military habits. A hot shiver ran down Sherlock's spine when he thought about the effect a few barked orders had on him.

"Hey, earth to Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head to clear it and looked up. John was smiling at him, but there was something else behind his eyes, something that had Sherlock's hair stand on end at the possibly meaning.

"Yes, John?"

"Merry Christmas," John said softly, putting down his mug.

"Ah, yes, I knew there was something," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes but the corners of his lips twitched.

"Git," John said fondly, "do you want your present now or later?"

Sherlock sat up. As much as he hated to appear this eager, he loved presents, especially when he could deduce them before actually opening them. He had raided the entire flat but this year he hadn't found what John intended to give him. Which was exciting.

"If you must, now would be preferable," Sherlock said, trying to play it cool. He knew John could see straight through him.

John only chuckled and heaved himself out of his chair.

"Come here then," he said, holding out a hand to Sherlock who took it without second thought, pulling himself to his feet.

John eyed him attentively, his deep blue eyes scanning over Sherlock's face until he started twitching in anticipation.

"You didn't find anything this year, did you?" John asked in a tone that made clear he knew the answer already.

Sherlock grumbled, hesitant to admit that he had been searching at all.

"Oh, I know that you're terribly nosy, Sherlock. I'm not you but even I notice when my closet was ransacked. You might be the world's cleverest man but sometimes you can be incredibly blind," John said, his left hand still holding on to Sherlock's. "But this year I wanted to give you something that you can't search."

John's voice was low, and Sherlock's heart did a funny stumble as he kept watching John's face. It was soft and open -laid bare, just for him- and suddenly Sherlock could see everything. Every lingering touch over the past years, every too long look they had cast at each other. Every stutter of his own heart when he looked at John. Every moment he had imagined a life with this man.

He swallowed around the lump in his throat.

"We're not one for big gestures, you and I," John said quietly, stepping a bit closer, "I think we don't need that, do we? We both know this has been a long time coming."

Sherlock nodded mutely; his gaze was locked with John's and he couldn't have moved away if his life depended on it.

"It took us a while," John continued lowly, his free hand gently settling on Sherlock's cheek, his thumb sliding over his eyebrow. Sherlock wanted to lean into the touch, lose himself in it but he knew he had to wait for John to finish.

This was too important. It was the next step in their relationship. And it had been inevitable since the moment they had laid eyes on each other. But it had needed time. Time to grow, to develop on its own without them rushing things; they hadn't been ready.

Now John's eyes were full of the same hope Sherlock himself felt blooming in his chest.

Sherlock wanted to say something, wanted to make sure John knew that he wanted this just as bad as he but there were no words as he opened his mouth. John smiled weakly, and as he slid his thumb slowly over Sherlock's lower lip, they both sighed.

"You don't have to say it. It's all over your face, Sherlock," John whispered, "every time you look at me. And I suppose you can see it just as clear on mine."

Sherlock nodded again, for once speechless in the face of the one man who had turned his entire life around.

John's hand slipped from the side of his face into Sherlock's hair, pulled him that last bit closer. Sherlock held his breath as John's lips touched his. All his senses went into overdrive and he moaned helplessly at the onslaught of taste and scent.

John instantly pulled back, rubbing his nose against Sherlock's, waiting patiently for Sherlock to adjust.

"Okay," Sherlock murmured after a while, and before he could make a move, John was kissing him again. He still kept it slow, chaste, his closed mouth swiping over Sherlock's as if wanting to map every inch of his skin. But this time Sherlock wasn't overwhelmed, this time he could react. With a low groan he pulled John closer, suddenly needing to feel _more_. He felt him smile against his lips; it was the most wonderful sensation.

"Just let go, Sherlock," John murmured roughly, pulling back just enough to speak, "you can catalogue everything later. No need to do that now. Just-"

As soon as Sherlock's brain processed what John had just said, he pressed his mouth against his again, finally letting go of all the restrictions he's laid on himself ages ago and kissed him eagerly. John gasped into his mouth, and Sherlock's heart soared.

He let John take the lead, let him tilt his head just so and as John's tongue gently coaxed his lips apart, he let out a deep sigh, curling his own around John's, losing himself so completely that he felt bereft as John pulled back.

"Nooo," Sherlock protested weakly, chasing John's lips again and again, wanting, _needing_ , more.

John chuckled, a carefree sound that had Sherlock's pulse quicken, and he buried his face in John's hair, inhaling deeply.

"There will be more," John assured him, "but don't you want your other present as well?"

Sherlock's head shot up.

"More?" he asked, only faintly embarrassed as how his voice cracked at the word.

John laughed, licking his lip. Sherlock's gaze instantly locked onto the small motion, his heart stumbling again.

"Yes, you greedy man, there is more. Because you didn't find anything doesn't mean there isn't something. I've just learned to not hide things for you around the flat anymore."

Sherlock laughed as well, giddy with joy.

"Well then, give it to me. Quick as you can."

 

_Two years, two months and two days_

 

John woke slowly with the knowledge that he had absolutely no place to be today. It was Sunday, no work, no cases, no nothing. Just sleeping in, a late breakfast and then-

A soft snuffle next to him made him smile. Carefully, to not wake Sherlock he rolled over so he could watch him sleep.

It was one of his favourite things to do. It was rare that he actually woke before Sherlock. Usually he was up and out and about long before John even stirred, so John treasured the few times he didn't.

Sherlock was a restless man, and it showed even in his sleep. The first few nights John had spent in his bed had been a bit troublesome: Sherlock -and John too- weren't used to having anyone in bed, and so they had fought over the covers, there had been bruises and scratches because sometimes they had forgotten.

Forgotten that they not only shared the flat anymore but also their beds.

Finally John had bought a bigger duvet and a new pillow, so that fight had ended. As for the lashing out in their sleep, they had adjusted eventually. Having had sex before falling asleep always helped; apparently being blissed out stopped occasional nightmares on either side of the bed.

John groaned happily as he stretched, the twinge in his back a lovely reminder of the night before. Sherlock grunted, and John bit back a giggle. He made the sweetest sounds in his sleep, sounds he wildly denied as John first told him about. John had stopped telling him and just savoured every single one of them silently.

John reached out and pushed a strand of Sherlock's hair out of his face; another giggle bubbled up as Sherlock scrunched his nose, huffing as if offended.

"God, you're adorable," John whispered into the warm space between them, dropping a kiss on Sherlock's crinkling nose which earned him another huff.

Propping his head into his hand, John carefully pulled the duvet down, revelling in the long lines of Sherlock's sleeping body. Even though he had already memorized every single freckle, every ticklish spot and every area that made Sherlock forget himself instantly, he couldn't stop looking at him.

"Not only adorable but also beautiful," John murmured to himself, sliding a finger over Sherlock's chest.

A gentle shiver ran through him, and a breathless moan fell from his lips. John watched in awe as goosebumps spread over pale skin, making the fine hair on his arms and legs stand on end. He did it again to be rewarded with another gorgeous moan.

"So responsive.”

John kept running his finger in random patterns over Sherlock's skin, a hazy arousal slowly building in him. And for a moment he wished they could stay exactly like this: exploring Sherlock's pliant body, causing involuntarily shudders and those low moans John loved the most. Because Sherlock had absolutely no control over them. He normally didn't hold back when they were in bed together, but John knew that Sherlock manipulated him every now and then to get what he wanted. He knew what his voice did to John, and he used that to his advantage. Not that John was complaining but every now and then he wished for Sherlock to just lose himself, forget everything and just act on his most basic instincts.

Sherlock was stirring more now, very slowly waking up, and John almost mourned that. Yet he kept stroking Sherlock's side, revelling in the softness of his skin, and as he leaned down to press a kiss just over Sherlock's heart, a hand carded through his hair.

"Hmmm, don't stop on my account." Sherlock's voice in the morning was a thing of beauty, and John's already interested cock twitched at the rumbling baritone.

"Only if you don't move," he replied lowly, desperately wanting to keep the lazy mood.

Sherlock stretched, kicking the covers off him and with a deep sigh relaxed back into the mattress.

"Fine," he mumbled sleepily, "go on then."

John looked up, surprised that for once Sherlock just did what he'd asked for. Sherlock shrugged one shoulder as he met John's eyes.

"'s your birthday today. Consider it my gift," Sherlock murmured, quirking an innocent smile at John. Letting his head fall back, he shifted a bit before he lay still again, only his breathing quickened a little as John resumed his ministrations.

"You remembered my birthday," John murmured into the soft skin of Sherlock's stomach, oddly touched by it.

"Don't be stupid, of course I remember your birthday," Sherlock drawled, squirming a bit as John reached a particular sensitive spot. "I remember everything when it comes to you," he said much quieter. There is something in his tone that had John look up, searching Sherlock's face.

The haziness has gone from his eyes; instead they were burning with a fierceness that stopped John instantly.

"Everything," Sherlock whispered, "every single detail." The words echoed loudly in John's ears as he stared speechlessly into Sherlock's multicoloured eyes. Sherlock didn't blink, and with a small start John realized that he could see past the mask he had established such a long time ago that it was hard for him to drop it completely. Even after all this time John had sometimes wondered if he ever saw the real Sherlock. With a groan he realized that he'd got it all along - or at least for quite some time now. He just hadn't known.

"Oh Sherlock," he whispered, blinking rapidly as he slid up his body to kiss him deeply.

Sherlock hummed into the kiss, pressing his body hard against John, slender fingers sliding over John's back.

"I'm sorry, I didn't see," John murmured between gentle bites to Sherlock's lower lip. who let out a throaty moan.

"You see now," he replied roughly, and then prevented John from answering as he kissed him passionately. "You've always been a bit slow," he muttered teasingly, dragging his teeth over John's lip.

Instead of answering, John growled and rolled them over, pinning Sherlock's naked body to the mattress. Pushing himself up, he looked down, drinking in Sherlock's reddened lips, his dark eyes, the flush on his cheeks.

"Let me show you slow," he whispered, ignoring the cracking of his voice, and then there wasn't much talking anymore.

Only soft sighs, wet kisses, and low groans. Gentle hands on burning bodies. Fingers, long and slender, caressing still golden skin, smaller hands holding tightly to narrow hips. Husky words - hushed and so quiet - fell from kiss-swollen lips, making hammering hearts pound harder, simmering blood flow quicker. Every last restraint crumbled and left them bare and vulnerable, and they embraced it with open arms, knowing they were safe.

Afterwards they flopped back in a heap of boneless limbs, sweaty and panting and sated.

"You're magnificent," John breathed against Sherlock's shoulder, "truly extraordinary." His voice trailed off as he thought back to their first meeting; even back then he had known that Sherlock was special in his very own way.

"Don't sell yourself short, John," Sherlock muttered sleepily, "you're quite outstanding yourself."

A comfortable silence fell, vibrating with things still unsaid.

"We're both lucky," John mused after a while, "without you..." He swallowed the last words, suddenly not able to say what they both knew but never had voiced in front of the other.

"- I'd be dead," Sherlock finished calmly; merely stating a fact. John opened his mouth to protest but Sherlock laid a long finger on his lips.

"No, don't try to deny it, we both know that without you I would have overdosed a long time ago. You, John Watson, are of the utmost importance to me. Always have been, and always will be." His voice was steady, his eyes clear as he rested his hand over John's on his chest. "You saved my life." Only the slightly increased heart rate betrayed his stoic words.

John was stunned. He'd always suspected that Sherlock felt deeply for him, he could see it in every of his -admittedly unusual- gestures. It was in the small things: a hand on his lower back to stead him, waiting for him at a crime scene, leaving the last biscuit for John. And even though John was a romantic at heart, his own behaviour was just as subdued. And yet they both knew.

Nevertheless did Sherlock's blatant words cut deep into John's heart, and he had to avoid Sherlock's eyes. Of course Sherlock noticed, he noticed everything, and he pulled John in his arms.

"You are my everything," he breathed into John's hair, "and I will do anything to keep you by my side until I'm old and grey and-"

John surged up and sealed his lips over Sherlocks, pouring all his emotions into a single kiss. His throat had closed up, and he screwed his eyes shut to stop them from spilling over.

"Wherever you go, I'll follow," he eventually whispered, his voice sounding raw, almost pained, even to his own ears. He didn't care. For all the years he had kept his feelings in check, acted like the soldier that he was, he just let go.

He kissed Sherlock again, desperate to convey all this without actually saying it. He would never be able to find the right words anyway.

Sherlock understood - of course he did.

Holding on tightly, he returned the kiss just as willingly, and as they broke apart, their eyes were shimmering brightly.

John exhaled deeply, trying to calm himself and pressed one lingering kiss just over the scar on Sherlock's chest.

"Come on, I'll make you breakfast," he said, almost sounding cheerful.

Sherlock's gaze scanned over him before he shook his head.

"No, John, you won't." The teasing tone had returned into his tone.

"No?"

"No," Sherlock's mouth curled into a smile, "because *I* will make *you* breakfast." He clambered out of bed and threw his dressing gown over his lanky frame, "it's your birthday after all."

Torn between melting and laughing at Sherlock, John did neither. He got out of bed as well, pulled on some old sweatpants and followed Sherlock into the kitchen, a brightly glowing fire low in his belly.

 

_Thirty years_

 

The sun is slowly setting over the hills, painting the tops in shades of pink and orange. The fields are bare, everything's brought in; autumn is still a bit away even though the nights are already cooling. But for now it's still warm, the smell of hay and grass heavy in the air and a few lazy bees buzzing in the near-by rosebushes.

John leans back in his chair, letting his eyes roam over the veranda, and he smiles as his gaze falls on his companion, puttering around on the cluttered table next to him. It's calm and quiet out here, nothing disturbs the peace of the late summer evening and John realizes that he's content to just do nothing at all. He puts down his book and takes a sip of his tea, sighing happily.

Sherlock looks up from what he's doing, peering over the edge of his glasses.

John smiles into his mug as he feels those pale eyes on him; he was always able to tell when Sherlock was looking at him.

“What?”, he asks eventually, meeting the other man's eyes.

“You are different today,” Sherlock says, putting down the tweezers in his hand, brows drawing together as he watches John closely.

“Am I now?” John replies, grinning at him; he will never not love when he's puzzling Sherlock and savour every single time.

Sherlock's eyes narrow but John stays quiet, sipping his tea. Sherlock mutters something and stands up. He stretches languidly, sighing loudly. John raises an eyebrow at him as he hears the kinks cracking but doesn't say anything.

“Yes, you are,” Sherlock contemplates, taking off the glasses he needs now and drops them on the table. He strolls over and flops elegantly next to John. Without a word John hands him his tea.

“I'm just happy,” John says after a few moments of silence, “you and me, out here. No murderers to chase, no specimen in the fridge. It's nice.”

Sherlock snorts but John knows him; he actually enjoys retirement just as much as he.

The sun's touching the top of the mountains now and both men sit in silence, watching it sink lower and eventually vanish.

Wordlessly John reaches out and Sherlock's hand meets it halfway. Their fingers tangle together, and John is surprised that this small gesture still sends jolts of pleasure through his body. He caresses the rough skin of Sherlock's hand, tracing idle circles on the back of it, enjoying the simplicity of holding hands with the man who's by his side for so long now.

“I have something for you,” Sherlock suddenly says, breaking the silence between them. He lets go and disappears inside. When he comes back he carries a small box that he drops in John's lap.

“Open it,” he demands, eyes sparkling expectantly in the low light.

John turns the box in his hands and throws a questioning look at Sherlock before he opens it. Inside is a beautifully bound book; it's so new it still smells a bit of glue and paper. 

It's John's very own book. He swallows hard as he turns it over in a suddenly trembling hand. 

As they had decided that it was time to leave London's crimes behind, Sherlock had suggested to publish their blogs - a few publishing houses had already indicated interest in the memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. After a few meetings, and long discussions with the protagonist himself, John had started to re-write them as a novel. Now that he had the time, he found that it wasn't that hard. And he had quite the tales to tell. Life with Sherlock had never been boring. 

“Open it,” Sherlock repeats, perching at the edge of his seat, vibrating with barely concealed anticipation.

John does and there, on the first page, is a dedication in Sherlock's best hand.

 _John. My blogger and my doctor. My conscience. My conductor of light. My life_.

John swallows hard as he reads the words, running a shaking finger over the lines.

“Sherlock, I... “

“Shhh, don’t say anything,” Sherlock says lowly, laying a hand on John's cheek to turn his face to him.

“Happy anniversary,” he murmurs as he leans in and kisses John gently.

“Sherlock, our anniversary isn't before January...”

“I know. But today is the day I realized that you wouldn't leave no matter how horrible I behaved. Since then you've proven me wrong more often then I can and want to admit. You saved me from myself and even moving to the countryside wasn't boring because of you. And I've never properly thanked-”

“Och, shut up,” John mutters, ears burning. He twists his hand in Sherlock shirt to pull him into a long, languid kiss. As they part, Sherlock's beaming like the sun. John swallows around the lump in his throat.

“Idiot. You saved me just as well,” he says, pushing a stray curl out of Sherlock's face, “and you spent the last 30 years with boring old me. I consider that thanks enough.”

He smiles shakily, his emotions threaten to overwhelm him. Sherlock mirrors the smile, leaning into John's hand that comes to rest on his cheek, thumb caressing still overly sharp cheekbones.

"Never, John. Never boring," Sherlock says quietly, a crooked smile on his lips.

“Come here, you soppy old man,” John whispers and seals his lips over Sherlock's again, kissing him deeply, lovingly.

As they part and John looks down at his gift again, Sherlock hands come to rest on his, the small gold band on his left hand clinking against John's own.

“This is us, John. Our life. Together. I thought I'd die alone and unappreciated-," his throat clicks as he swallows, "- and unloved. And now, you and I, have created something special, and we will leave such a legacy behind. And all because of you. So, thank you,” Sherlock says quietly, voice audible wavering.

John is at a loss for words but Sherlock doesn't seem to expect any. He takes the box and puts it on the table before he slides down, resting his head in John's lap, his long legs folded in a strange angle to fit onto the small bench.

John is touched, and a quiet joy fills every cell of his body.

"Thank _you_ , Sherlock," he eventually manages to say, looking down at the man. Sherlock only hums in reply, pushing his head into John's hand. Smiling weakly, John starts combing through the untamed curls. Sherlock has always loved it when he played with his hair; it calmed his racing mind, brought order into the chaos; and later into their relationship, helped him sort through emotional turmoil.

Some things just don't change.

John loves the softness of Sherlock's hair, and they had spent hours like this: Sherlock curled up in John's lap, like a big, lanky cat, simply enjoying each other's company.

These days the hair under John's fingers is lighter, thick silver strands are weaving through the black, turning it a gorgeous shade of grey. Sherlock's mind is just as sharp and clear as it always has been, but he had learned not to use it on the ones he loves. Especially Molly appreciates it a lot whenever she and her family visit.

John likes this softer, gentler version of Sherlock but he wouldn't dare to tell him that. He smiles fondly down at him. Sherlock's eyes are closed and a tiny smile lingers on his full lips. One hand is pressed against John's thigh, the other rests relaxed on his stomach and he is almost purring, pressing his head into John's hand, relishing his administrations visibly.

The sky's gone dark and the stars are coming out, bright and sparkling, not diminished by any city lights and a pale moon is peaking up over the top of the hills in the distance.

“I love you,” John whispers inaudibly into the falling night, not intending for Sherlock to hear. They don’t need those words, they know what they mean to each other, always have. But sometimes John simply has to say it, find an outlet for his overwhelming feelings; usually it is to a sleeping Sherlock. It's enough for John.

Soon the cold creeps into their limbs and John is the first to feel it.

“Let's go inside,” he says, caressing Sherlock's neck one last time.

“Hmmm,” is the rumbled answer and Sherlock pushes himself up, smoothing down his ruffled hair.

John collects his belongings and heads inside, putting the kettle on, pondering if it's already cool enough to warrant starting a fire. Turning to Sherlock, he finds him leaning in the doorway, watching him with soft eyes. John cocks his head but before he can ask what's wrong, Sherlock smiles at him. It's his 'just for John' smile, it's honest and bright, and despite all those years, it still weakens John's knees.

“I love you, too, John.”

Just five words, five tiny words but they make John's heart stutter in his chest and his cheeks flush, and as he holds his hand out, Sherlock takes it without hesitation.

The kiss is gentle, almost chaste, a bit like their first. It's everything they've had and still have. It's promise and vow, a long way coming -and going- together. It's obstacles to climb, failing and succeeding. It's the hard times, and the good.

It's knowing they always have each other, and it's all they need.

 

 


End file.
